The Letter
by MagpieTales
Summary: Long Haul Saga: one shot. Comes after Turbulence, but can be read alone. Sam wasn't ready to let go, even if all he had right then was a letter.


A little Valentine's gift. This comes after the story Turbulence, but it could be read as a one off. Enjoy!

**A/N: **Just updating this and taking the opportunity to let you all know about the TB/SVM awards, check them out at the address on my profile and support our fanfiction community. Nominations are open until the 8th May 2014, voting from 15th to 29th for your favourite stories. There's plenty of categories so you should be able to find one for the stories that moved you, whether it was to tears or laughter or both.

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><p><strong>The Letter<strong>

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><p>It was a warm morning in March and the land around the old farmhouse was flushed green with spring growth.<p>

Not all of that growth was welcome. A man knelt at one of the flowerbeds by the front porch working the soil with an old trowel, his shirt sleeves rolled up in the unexpected heat. He stopped to wipe his brow on his forearm. Dirt encrusted his hands and smeared the thighs of his faded jeans. A pile of wilted weeds lay limply on the ground beside him.

He was handsome, wiry and compact with an ease to his movements; a man comfortable in his own skin. He focused on his task, working over the patch of earth steadily, unhurriedly, careful not to disturb the cultivated plants growing amongst the unwelcome wild intruders.

Once he'd cleared the span within his reach, he stopped and stood up to stretch. He walked over to the trash can to dump the weeds, his movements stiff and tired. He washed up at the hose, rinsed off the old trowel and returned it to the shed.

Now that he wasn't hunched over the dirt it was apparent that something had sapped his vitality. He wasn't old, not enough to be exhausted by the meagre half-hour job. His tan was faded, as if he hadn't seen the sun for months, and his clothes were loose on his frame too. His red-gold hair showed grey streaks at his temples. But what really gave it away was the echo of pain behind his eyes.

...

Sam Merlotte stood in the yard surveying his handiwork. He shook his head at himself. It had taken three pitifully short sessions just to get half of one bed weeded, but he'd keep coming back until it was finished, even if it took him a month. He reckoned it might too; he tired so easily. He'd never had to deal with a long convalescence before, being a shifter. It frustrated the hell out of him.

They'd told him that the blessing Niall had put on the land was almost extinguished, but it comforted him anyway, coming here. That wasn't down to any fairy magic. He'd had a bellyful of that anyway. No, it was soothing simply because he felt close to his wife here.

When he found himself at the house that first time, a few days earlier, he'd noticed the flourishing weeds straight away and automatically fetched the trowel. He'd sunk into the rhythm of the work and relished the time outdoors, immersed in the fresh air and the enticing scents from the woods. Having an affinity to nature, it had done him a world of good.

Most of Bon Temps would be surprised that he kept coming back to tend her grandmother's flowerbeds when he wasn't even living in the house anymore. He didn't attempt to explain it to himself. He just took some small satisfaction from knowing that when she got home she would find the garden well-tended and it would be by his hand.

She'd always hated weeding.

He reminded himself that he had every right to be angry with her after the way she'd taken off in December, without even saying goodbye to him, her own husband, but the thought had no fire to it. He'd given up indignation and anger once he'd needed all his energy for other things. Like breathing.

By the time he was out of danger, all he had left to hold onto was sadness.

Feeling the sun, he started towards the front porch steps just as the phone in his back pocket vibrated. He sighed quietly. He pulled it out and read the text from his mom as he climbed the steps carefully to get into the shade of the porch. It read:** Call me when you can.**

They'd let him out of the clinic a fortnight ago and his mom, Bernie, had insisted on staying with him at the duplex for a 'few days' to make sure he could cope. He managed to persuade her to go back to Texas after a week, but since then she still touched base with him every day. Every day for the last seven, anyway.

If he didn't reply she'd keeping calling. Or maybe take it into her head to drive over to Bon Temps again. That was the last thing he needed.

"Hi, mom," he said, trying to sound as cheerful as he could.

"Hi, son. How are you today?"

"Good, good. Sitting in the yard in the sun. Sky's blue today." He grimaced at the lie, but he couldn't stomach any more fussing. She'd be apoplectic if she knew whose yard he was working on when he should be resting. 'That woman' was by far the mildest thing she'd called Sookie in the months since she'd upped and left.

"That's great, Sam. You've been cooped up inside for far too long." He heard the hesitation, the fear she didn't voice. He held back his own echo of anxiety, knowing only too well what concerned her. There was nothing to do but wait it out. Neither of them would relax until the end of the month.

Ludwig had advised him that would be the best time to try shifting again, under a full moon, but she cautioned him that he might not be strong enough to transform, even then. Not only was he physically weak, but the doctor had had to supress his shifting when he was at his worst. The drugs she'd used carried a risk, and usually Ludwig prescribed them sparingly, only a few days at a time. Not for weeks. She had bluntly warned him that the effects on that part of his nature might be permanent, and it could be months before he knew one way or the other whether he'd ever shift again.

That was a bleak prospect. Shifters who lost the ability to run tended to resort to addiction and suicide.

He pushed the worry away. He had another few weeks until the full moon and he was improving, albeit at snail's pace. A week ago he couldn't even manage light yard work. He would be well enough to shift, he was sure.

He picked a topic guaranteed to distract Bernie. "How are the grandkids, mom?"

"Oh, little Gail has grown like a weed, you would hardly recognise her."

He let her ramble on for a while, relieved that her focus was off him. She was complaining about Gail's reluctance to eat vegetables, and laying the blame for that on her mother. He smiled to himself as he wondered if his sister-in-law Deidra was still relieved to have her mother-in-law back home for babysitting duty, or if she was already wishing Bernie was still a state away.

After a few more minutes of making appropriate noises, he faked a yawn. Bernie took the hint and said goodbye.

He pocketed his phone again, and looked out into the woods, leaning against the porch railing and contemplating his mom. They'd always been close, so his brush with death that winter had hit her hard. He put up with her mothering, but it wasn't the same as when he was a kid, not soothing. More … irritating.

She wasn't quite the same either.

She hadn't been the same since his dad died. He'd barely noticed it at first, the way she gradually became more secretive, less confident in other people's tolerance and more suspicious of them in return.

Of course, as a family they'd always had to be secretive – he'd found that out once he hit puberty, discovered he was a shifter and realised there were things he could never tell his friends – but his dad was good with people, a real natural at setting them at ease, and his parents had never wanted for friends to socialise with while his dad was alive.

Sam liked to think he'd inherited his dad's talent with people, and that was partly why he'd chosen to open a bar.

While his dad was around, Bernie had been much more at ease herself. It was only after he'd passed that she began to close herself off, especially after she'd remarried. Sam sighed. He knew how hard that was, being in a relationship with a human and keeping so much of yourself hidden. He'd struggled with it as a teenager many times. He wished he'd noticed how hard it was for her. Hell, if he'd known what a jackass her second husband was, he'd have made sure he was with her the night of the Reveal.

His mom had had a tough time when Don divorced her. And now… well, she was bitter, even he could see that. Some of the things she said about Sookie and Jason … He grimaced. He'd never heard her talk like that.

He should have expected her not to take to Sookie, though. She'd never approved of any of his girlfriends. He'd been reluctant to bring Jannalynn home for exactly that reason – werewolves were beneath shifters in his mom's eyes, and she'd never have approved of one so involved in pack politics and violence. Not that she approved of his human girlfriends either; she had her heart set on him finding a shifter match.

Finally Sam understood why.

He stared out over the yard, lost in hazy memories of the past winter.

Early one December morning, a few days after Sookie had left, he had collapsed. Bernie had rushed him, to Ludwig's clinic where he'd spent almost two months in a critical condition, weak as a kitten, at times sedated for his own protection as his body fought itself and tried to shift. He didn't want to imagine what that had been like for his mom, seeing him drugged, often barely aware of her vigil at his bedside, and never knowing when or if he'd recover.

Then in February, as abruptly as it began, he'd woken to a sharp jolt of intense pain. When it faded a weight had gone from his chest, it was easier to breathe, and he knew his ordeal was over. Barring his unexpectedly long recovery to full health, anyway.

He rubbed his chest, remembering that deep ache as the magic created by the Cluviel Dor was ripped from him.

One night before that, during the terrible time when the fairy magic was ripping him apart, he'd stirred uneasily and half woken, aware enough to feel tears landing softly on his hand, the hand that Bernie would clutch all night some nights. He'd kept his eyes closed and listened to her soft pleading, begging him not to die, not before he'd had a shifter child, not before she'd kept her promise to his dad.

Afterwards, it sunk in that his dad had made Bernie promise to make sure his line didn't die out with Sam. Both his dad's twin brother and his half-sister had died young, leaving his dad the last shifter of his generation. Sam was his only shifter offspring still living.

That had been real important to his dad, carrying on the line, because shifters were a rare breed and getting rarer. He'd spoken about it to Sam a time or two. In fact they'd argued over it more than once, back when Sam was a belligerent teenager receiving too many lectures about duty, responsibility, and how special it was to be a shifter – something that didn't feel very special to Sam at the time. It only seemed to cause him heartache and alienation during his adolescence.

He wished his dad had said something to him before he died instead of placing the burden squarely on his mom's shoulders. But Sam and his dad had been butting heads since he began to shift. Too much alike, maybe. Sam had been a wild teenager, caring more about partying with friends than listening to his folks. When Sam had signed up with the Army, all his dad saw was a wild teenager in danger of discovery as a shifter. Instead of seeing it as an attempt to straighten himself up, his dad accused him of naively expecting some grand adventure full of drinking and heroic fights and girls. He'd called Sam a coward, accused him of running away from all the trouble he'd caused at home.

All through Sam's time in the Army they hadn't seen eye to eye, barely speaking despite Bernie's efforts. It was only when Sam came home that his dad grudgingly admitted the Army had been the right choice, saying gruffly it had made a man of him. Then his dad died before they had fully repaired their relationship and Sam left for Bon Temps to start fresh and get out from under a cloud of regrets.

Sam sighed, and shook his head, pulling himself back to the present.

He patted his chest absently, checking his shirt pocket, and picked up the cooler he'd tucked out of the sun on the porch. He looked wistfully at the locked front door but didn't attempt to open it, even though he knew exactly where to find the spare key. He'd moved out not long before Sookie left, and he didn't feel right about going back inside while she was gone. Hopefully Michele, Jason's wife, was keeping it tidy in there. He could hardly criticise her for neglecting the garden while she was pregnant and Jason had his own land that kept him busy.

He took a seat on the porch, next to the table, and grabbed the cup he'd brought with him. He poured himself a drink from the cooler, and drank the iced tea down slowly, grateful for its chill. Feeling refreshed, he put the cup back on the table and stretched his legs out. He spent ten minutes just relaxing, taking in the spring scents and watching a few bees buzzing leisurely from plant to plant.

He was ready. Here, on the porch of the house he'd shared with his wife for over two years, was a fitting place for what he needed to do.

He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and carefully took out a folded envelope. It had been ripped unevenly, torn open in haste. He smoothed it out, and gently took out the letter it protected. The paper was thick, good quality, but the letter was worn at the corners and its folds were soft, no longer crisp.

Sam had read it many times.

He was livid the first time he'd read it. Once he realised she'd gone off alone, too cowardly to speak to him face-to-face before she left, he'd barely taken in anything beyond that and the basic instructions she gave for while she was gone.

Then he'd been too ill to read anything at all. But someone at the clinic had found the letter – he'd shoved it angrily into the back pocket of his jeans right before he collapsed, he thought – and they'd placed it on the little table by his bed. Once he began to recover he saw it there and after a few days of it gnawing at him, he picked it up and read it again with a calmer mind. Then he read it the next day, hurt and wounded all over again, but drawn to it all the same. And again the next, and the next, always when he was alone. He knew it backwards by now, but it had become a daily ritual, an exorcism and a solace all in one.

He read the letter slowly savouring every word, even the painful ones.

.

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><p><em>Sam,<em>

_Niall has found someone who might be able to remove the effects of the CD. I need to travel to Europe and I will be gone a while. I might not be back until early summer._

_I've left Jason and Michele in charge of the house while I'm gone, and Mr Cataliades has power of attorney to deal with anything else that comes up on my behalf. Jason has his number if you need him. There's a form with this letter that you need to take to the bank tomorrow to take my name off the joint account – speak to Mr Seacroft, he's expecting you._

_I promise I will do everything I can to undo the damage I caused and free you to be yourself again. I never meant for any of this to happen Sam, I just couldn't lose you that night and I didn't fully understand what I was doing, or the power I was wielding. I was just glad I managed to save your life, I didn't realise I'd done anything else. That was my mistake, my responsibility, and I promise I will fix it._

_I want to believe that the time we had together was real, whatever drew us together in the first place. I wanted a life with you, and I tried hard to make it work. And for a while there the life we built was good, and I was happy with you. I hope you were happy too._

_We both made mistakes along the way, and I am heartily sorry for every one of mine. I never meant to hurt you, that was the last thing I wanted in all this, but you were right. I was not treating you the way a wife should treat her husband, like a true partner. I kept things from you, too many things. I see that now._

_I should have talked to you about the miscarriages, taken you with me to that doctor, told you what Ludwig said. You deserved that, but I was so afraid that I would never be able to give you what you wanted, and scared that you would leave me for that. I was a coward and a fool. I'm so sorry I didn't, couldn't let you in._

_At least the things you kept from me, you did because you thought you were protecting me, sheltering me from the dangers out there, even if it wasn't right to keep me in the dark like a little kid. But what I really regret is that you felt you couldn't tell me more about yourself, your nature. Sometimes, being human, I didn't understand you, just like your mom feared I wouldn't. And I should have talked to you about her sooner, given you a chance to stand up to her and stop her interfering._

_You were so good about getting the rest of your family to accept me with all my foibles, and I'm grateful I had the chance to be part of a bigger family for a while. I'm sorry that my quirk made it difficult sometimes, and difficult for us, that you felt like I was invading your privacy however inadvertently it happened. Sometimes it hurt when you shut me out, but you were entitled to have some peace, and I'm sorry I wasn't upfront from the start about how easy it was for me to hear you._

_I really regret that I didn't tell you what was going on as soon as I found out what the CD had done. I know you would never, never behave the way you did this last week if you were yourself. Please don't beat yourself up about that. Nothing got broke beyond repair, even Jason's ego will recover. It wasn't your fault. None of it._

_I wish things could be different. Ironic, huh? I shouldn't be making any more wishes after what happened with the last one. If I'd taken a second to think about what I was doing back then, maybe everything would have worked out between us. Like you said, now we'll never know, and that's my biggest regret._

_Mostly I wish that all my dreams of a house full of kids and vacations on the beach with you had come true. But that's a very selfish wish. You need more than I have to give; you made me face that after years of not admitting it to myself. I truly believed that what I felt for you was enough, but now I see that it wasn't at all. It was a pale imitation, and it was extremely selfish of me to turn to you for comfort when you are worth so much more than that._

_You are a good, kind, decent man Sam Merlotte. You deserve a wife who loves you with all her heart. I deeply regret that I couldn't be that woman for you, no matter how hard I tried._

_If for some reason I don't come back, please find her. She's out there waiting for you._

_You'll always be my best friend. I hope that when I come home we can still be friends, but I know in my heart that I've hurt you too much to expect that and it'll never be the same between us. For that I can only apologise._

_Please take care of yourself._

_With affection and warmth, your friend, always,_

_Sookie Stackhouse._

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><p>.<p>

The most painful word was there, right at the end. He ran his finger gently over it, tracing the curves. Stackhouse.

He'd eventually decided, once that wound had faded to just a sting, that it was a blessing that she'd signed her maiden name. It kept him from hoping, crazily hoping, that they would stay married when she came back. He went back and forth over whether she had deliberately signed it that way to warn him off, but he'd finally concluded reluctantly that she'd probably done it accidently. She had slipped up and used her old name out loud a few times since they'd got married.

There was a sign he'd missed. Her subconscious had never accepted his name.

He frowned. He'd been trying not to beat himself up about that, that he'd been in denial for so long about the reality of their relationship. He'd tried to persuade himself that it was the fairy magic that made him believe so fervently that she had accepted him, and would come to truly love him. She'd certainly thrown herself into married life convincingly enough, and he'd willingly turned a blind eye to a thousand little hints that things were otherwise. Hints that flooded back to haunt him in quiet moments ever since he'd begun his ritual with her letter.

Some of it was the magic. But not all of it. He traced over her handwriting softly.

He had wanted her to fall in love with him, and known deep down that she hadn't. Not when he proposed, not when they married. He'd thought that he could deal with it, that it – she was worth it. But the truth had lain in his heart like a piece of twisted shrapnel, eating away at his happiness. His love wasn't enough for the both of them, wasn't enough to carry a marriage.

It wasn't even enough for him to forgive her when she didn't treat him right. Oh, he knew it was unfair of him to expect that she'd treat him as if she really did love him. But it didn't stop him wanting it, being hurt and irritated when she disappointed him.

He smiled wryly to himself. She was stubborn through and through. How he'd ever possessed the arrogance to think that he could wear her down, change the way she felt about him … He shook his head ruefully. He'd been a fool.

He looked at the letter again. He winced as he got to the part about hiding his nature. As soon as he'd read that with a clear head, he'd known she was right. He should have been completely open about it with her. She was his wife. Instead he'd hidden the aspects he thought she couldn't cope with, afraid to lose her.

With time and more readings, he'd even stopped defending his decision to keep her ignorant of other things. He'd kept a lot from her, thinking he needed to protect her, but Sookie was no delicate flower that needed to be kept in the dark.

No two ways about it, he'd been too secretive for a married man. It was his way, ingrained by years of hiding who and what he was. He smiled crookedly; maybe he was born that way, more like Bernie than he thought.

The smile faded as his thoughts turned to darker things: the jealousy that had gripped him every time he felt Sookie slipping between his fingers, jealousy he'd struggled to hide from her from day one. Calvin's terse warning came back to him: _Don't hold her so tight she can't breathe._ The magic might have made it impossible to ease his grip, but he'd felt that need to grab on to her long before she'd saved his life with the wish, envious of everyone who had a shot with her. No one else was good enough for her.

He'd fought hard against it, but his love was the possessive kind.

Maybe that was something else he'd inherited from Bernie. She'd been much the same with both her husbands. And Sam himself, some might say.

His jaw tensed at the darkest memories. Keeping secrets and being jealous wasn't the worst he'd done. Sookie might have forgiven him for hurting her, but he couldn't forgive himself, even with fairy magic to excuse it. That frightened look in her eyes still haunted him. He didn't understand how she could ever forgive him that.

But then Sookie didn't know it wasn't the first time he'd laid hands on a woman. Sure, he'd been a teenager, and it was only that one slap, but he'd been so shaken afterwards, guarded against a repeat so tightly for years… He hadn't slipped again, even with the maenad, even with Jannalynn. He knew that was part of what drew him to impossible frustrating women, dangerous women. They tested his control. Resisting his impulses around them reassured him that he wasn't a monster.

And then he had lost that tight control completely with Sookie, the woman he loved. He'd been devastated, sickened.

Then to find out the fairy magic was to blame, that she already knew that… His anger had been building for months, and that was the last straw. He was furious that he found out what was going on from other people, that _his wife_ had shut him out yet again.

If he'd had a chance to calm down, he would have realised that she barely had an opportunity to talk to him that final week. He would have forgiven her in a matter of days. They could have talked, worked out a way to fix things together.

But no, he'd been too full of anger and accusations to listen. Determined to make a stand, to have some time away from her to get himself together, he'd made damn sure she knew how angry he was with her, and he hadn't softened even when she'd desperately pleaded with him. He'd forced her to admit she didn't love him, and stupidly blamed everything on her.

Sookie being Sookie took that straight to heart, shouldered all the responsibility he'd heaped on her. She didn't give him a chance to cool off and apologise; she rushed right off to fix things and 'save' him. Alone. Without him. Why did she always think she had to be the one to jump in and play hero?

God, he hoped she was okay. Wherever she was.

_If I don't come back …_ He refused to give those words from her letter any credence. She was going to come back, period.

She'd better.

Even though he didn't know how he would feel about her when she did.

He'd loved her for years. His feelings had been incredibly intense when the magic was binding him to her. Now they seemed muted, dimmed. He didn't know if that was just part of losing the connection, or a more natural response to all the heartache.

Maybe they could be friends. He wasn't sure if he could handle that after being with her, but he'd try. Because she asked him for it.

His mind skittered away from the other thing she'd asked of him. He wasn't ready to look for someone else yet, even if Sookie gave it her blessing. Technically they were still married, and he wouldn't give up on her until he had it in black and white, had the divorce papers in his hands.

Reluctantly he folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. He sat for a spell thinking over things, wondering if he had enough energy to stop by the bar later tonight, see about doing something to get that whole mess back on track.

He jerked at a faint sound. Dammit, a truck heading down the drive. Jason.

Things were distinctly chilly between him and his brother-in-law. He was sure Jason must have realised he was the one stopping by, weeding the beds like a good-hearted trespasser. But Jason seemed quite content with turning a blind eye to that as long as he didn't catch Sam here. That would cause an awkward confrontation that neither of them were ready to tackle.

Sam picked up the cooler, grabbed his cup and loped swiftly into the woods before Jason came into sight, heading in the direction of the cemetery where he'd parked his pick-up.

...

Jason jumped out of his truck, noisily slamming the door. He jogged over to the porch, pausing for a second to place Sam's scent and then scowling at it. He unlocked the door and went into the house. He checked everything was in order, pleased that Sam hadn't been presumptuous enough to go inside.

He only noticed the weeded patch of dirt as he left. He shook his head, muttering, "She ain't dumb enough to fall for that, Merlotte. It's going to take more than some weeding to get back into her good graces."

He threw a glance at the woods before he left, but he figured Merlotte was long gone, too ashamed to show his face.

Most of Bon Temps might be sympathetic towards Sam, pitying him after his bout of serious ill-health and tutting over the rumours that Sookie had deserted him, but Jason knew Sookie wasn't the one in the wrong.

He'd had to bite his tongue plenty in the last few months whenever he caught the odd snatch of chatter around Bon Temps about his sister. He couldn't afford to get into another brawl; Michele had made that quite clear. He was real glad Catfish had had words with the road crew, convincing them that Sookie had good reason to take off. If he'd had to listen to that trash talk all day at work, he'd have hit somebody for sure.

It annoyed him enough that he couldn't set all those other busybodies straight. He wanted to stick up for his little sis. Family was family.

He just hoped she'd be back before the newest addition to the Stackhouse family arrived. Michele had just had a scan to confirm it. His daughter needed her Aunt Sookie to hurry home.


End file.
